


That Remedy She's Chasing

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Bedside Hand-Holding, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Stream of Consciousness, Temporary Amnesia, Very Sleepy Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 10:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: All it takes for her to catch up to that remedy she's been chasing is to be confined to her probable deathbed.





	That Remedy She's Chasing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



Pain.

Everything is pain.

Except the darkness, that's a separate thing. But even the darkness is tinged with pain. Stupid darkness.

* * *

Pain and discomfort. Discomfort is new. It's like pain, but somehow... lesser. The concept of 'lesser' seems new, too. And 'new.'

This is all getting confusing.

Wait! Confusion! That's new too.

But pain is beating down everything else, flooding in around the edges and washing out the rest.

* * *

There is a distinct sense of self now, someplace to put the pain, but with no idea how long it's been, as if the pain has existed since before time kicked in.

She (hah, an identity! And the concept of identities! It's all coming trickling back now) tries to lift her hands, to make sure her other parts are still attached, to see if the pain is a gaping wound or missing limbs, but it feels like her hands are too heavy.

"Pain," she manages, with a voice that sounds so new and bizarre. She's not sure about voices; not sure if she even trusts the idea yet. She hears movement, the rustle of fabric and the heavy, _excessive_ sound of footsteps. Who decided footsteps should be so loud and ringing?

She tries to lift her hands again, to push the sounds and the pain away, but there's some invisible force pinning her to the bed. Probably for torture reasons. She's got the vaguest sense that it's probably torture and there's a good chance she deserved it.

"You're all right, you're just tangled," says a voice, not her own. She automatically likes his voice more. It's low and quiet, it sounds rough at the edges, but it's soothing and she finds she intrinsically believes what it's telling her.

"Good voice," she tells it, wondering if it's connected to a person. 

There's a laugh, soft and light, and it settles around her like feathers. She remembers feathers from before the pain started and hey! Things really are coming back.

The force holding her to the bed lifts away, and there's a possibility it was just a heavy blanket. Something warm touches her face, a hand, the kind with fingers and everything.

"Marian? Are you still awake?"

And like that, all the bits she's missing hit her like a herd of druffalo. Her name, the identity of the person attached to the good voice, and the smell of wine and patchouli she recognizes now, the suddenly-familiar bed she's lying on, and... The Fight.

Well, most of the fight comes back, but she doesn't remember how she died. She's mostly definitely dead. There's no way she could have won that fight.

"I'm dead," Marian says, knowing it to be true. The fight went terribly from the very start. She dropped her staff on the flagstones and had to scramble to grab it before the Arishok swung his axe with the force of a dozen angry bears.

"You're not, though it was close," Fenris tells her. It's still too dark and her head is still too muzzy to see anything beyond the faintest glow from his tattoos, but she at least now knows it's him and they're in his bedroom.

"I must be dead," she argues.

"We all thought so, but you survived. Anders… was helpful." The distaste is evident in his voice, but he adds nothing else, which means Anders worked a minor miracle in keeping her this alive. Marian tries to smile, but she feels it turns into a grimace of pain. Smiling is overrated, it turns out.

* * *

It's dark and warm and Marian thinks she can smell bread nearby and she's _hungry._

She tries to speak, but her throat is dry and scratchy. There's a steady glow, not like the flicker of a candle, so she knows Fenris is nearby. It's comforting to know she's not alone.

They've absolutely had their differences, especially after a weird, uncomfortable night at the Hanged Man. They'd both had too many drinks and Marian ended up straddling his lap with his hands up under the back of her tunic until a well-timed (or maybe horribly-timed) smashed glass broke the moment. It's better for everyone that they didn't get involved, she thinks, but it's still nice he's looking out for her.

Marian tries again to call for him, hoping he'll bring water, but it comes out a wheezy sigh. She turns on her side to see where he is.

His feet are propped up on the edge of the bed and his arms are crossed across his chest, head lolling to one side as he's dozing in the chair.

She's in his house, his bed, and he's sleeping upright in Kirkwall's most rickety looking chair. _Ridiculous,_ she thinks, biting down on a too-fond smile. Marian tries to sit up, but the pain seizes up her muscles and her joints feel like someone's scraped them out with hot knives. She gasps in shock, and then the gasping sets off a whole new cascade of pain in her lung. She falls back into the pillow and watches the only thing she can see in the dark, which are Fenris's tattoos. His chest rises and falls evenly, like breathing's something he does every day without searing pain; she's immensely jealous. Without realizing it, she watches him until she falls asleep again.

* * *

At some point, Anders stops by. Marian recognizes both the tickle of his feathery stole and the suffocating tension that fills any place that contains an Anders and a Fenris at the same time. Some viscous, bitter potion gets poured down her throat and she's about to punch the piss out of a certain healer, but once she's managed to swallow it, her lungs immediately feel better. As if she's actually taking in the proper amount of air for the first time in ages.

"Good bird," she chokes out, too excited to finally be sucking the air in to just waste it on useless words now. She reaches out and pats the feathers.

Anders goes and then it's Fenris who smoothes a damp cloth over her forehead while she continues to breathe like her life depends on it. Air is amazing and she doesn't know how she ever lived without it.

"Fenris?"

"What do you need?" He must be kneeling next to the bed to sound so close. She feels his hand tighten around hers, his thumb running over her knuckles, though he's careful of the bruises.

"Fenris," she says again, suddenly not sure why she even said it in the first place. He's still stroking her hand and it's distracting.

He chuckles softly after a moment and brushes damp hair off her face. "Sleep, you're delirious."

* * *

The next time she wakes up, it's much brighter. She's initially horrified and braces for the feelings of torture. After a few seconds, once the brightness doesn't cause searing, ripping pain behind her eyeballs, she relaxes a little. It seems, when she glances around, that Fenris has cleared up a bit. For her benefit maybe?

Far from necessary, as her room at home estate looks much the same, though with less broken furniture, but at least there's a clear spot to put her feet down now. She's feeling the unbearable call of nature. Marian's not sure how long she's been in bed, probably a whole day or more, so she's prepared to be a little shaky.

She's _not_ prepared to hit the floor like a lumpy sack of potatoes dropped from a third floor balcony. She lies on the floor, admiring the dusty rug while she contemplates her next move.

There's shuffling by the door on the other side of the bed and Marian can see between the bed and floor enough to recognize the boots -- as spiky as their wearer.

"My legs have come off. Fenris, my legs. Have you seen them?"

"Hawke?" There's a pause where he must be looking around for her before the boots come around the bed towards her. "Oh, _honestly._ Why did you think you could get up?"

Marian risks a glance up but he's not scowling nearly as much as she expected. He's not smirking, either. In fact, he looks relatively concerned.

"Nature calls, and I must answer," she says.

Hauling herself into a mostly-sitting position, she can her back against the bed. Fenris sits nearby and folds his hands on his lap. He doesn't immediately drag her back to the bed, which she appreciates, but also, the floor's cold.

She takes stock of what she's working with before she tries to stand again. In addition to what feel like broken ribs and maybe a fucked up collar bone, her bare legs are mottled with bruises in various purples and blues. They continue, patchwork-style up to the hem of the tunic she's wearing, and most likely beyond.

"How long ago was that fight?" she asks, a dark thought prodding at her mind.

He confirms it for her. "Almost a week."

Marian rattles off all the cuss words she can think of. "Help me up?" He obliges, lifting her up under the arms and letting her ease back onto the bed. Fenris pulls the curtains closed on the window before providing blessed privacy and a chamberpot.

Marian drifts in and out of sleep. She doesn't mean to, doesn't want to... She wants to pack herself up and head home and stop imposing on Fenris' good graces. There's something he's not saying, some reason she was brought here instead of her own house, why it's Fenris of all people taking care of her and not Anders or Varric or even Bodahn and Sandal. She resolves to ask some questions next time she sees him, sometime when her lungs are burning less from the exertion of shallow breathing.

* * *

The sun is beaming through the window when Fenris joins her again. He picks a dagger from his boot and hauls out a long piece of metal that he and Aveline have repeatedly told her is called a honing steel but she insists on calling a 'pokey stick' to annoy them and sets to fixing his blade.

She can't quite squirm up the pillows to a sitting position without her lugs starting their overly dramatic pain-fest again, so they can only really see him from the corner of her eye. She watches him closely when she asks the question that's been on her mind. "Fenris, why am I here?"

"Because you're far too weak to walk yourself home and I'm not carrying you again."

 _Again. Hilarious. He's so tiny and I'm so floppy._ "Hey now. I walk just fine. I've been told that many times. It might be one of my finest talents."

Setting the dagger and steel down, Fenris fills a cup with water and hands it to her. He doesn't look at her while he's doing it. "Someone had to keep a close eye on you, and we knew it would probably be a week or so. It seemed logical at the time to pick somewhere people wouldn't bother you."

"People?" Marian asks. She sips the water, and almost cries. It's perfect. The most perfect thing she could imagine. In a contest between water and air, there was no contest. "Wait, like who? People who want to hurt me? Is is Varric? He always said he'd kill me if I died doing something stupid."

"You know you killed the Arishok? After he killed the viscount. You're very… popular these days."

"Are we sure he's dead?"

"Yes, Hawke, Dumar was decapitated. Qunari tossed his head around like a volleyball." 

"No, the Arishok. Who checked? Do we trust their judgement? If it was some simple noble, or some fancy-free ruffian -- like Isabela -- I want a second opinion."

"No one needed to check; he burned up. There were hardly bones left."

"Did I… Wow. Really?"

Only then does he look up from his dagger. "You really don't remember?"

Marian thinks, hard enough to make the spot between her eyes ache. "Not very much. I remember Isabela coming back, I remember bits and pieces of the fight, but mostly, I remember the pain afterwards."

Fenris studies her a moment longer before a smile flashes across his face in a blink. "But you're feeling better now?" 

"Hard to tell. Still not convinced I'm alive. Who checked me out? Do we trust _their_ judgement? Was it Isabela again?"

"Stay as long as you need to recover. I'm sure the horde of frantic nobles will still be there." He pushes himself up off his chair, the long, lean lines of his arms sweeping gracefully as he gathers his cup and holds his hand out to take hers.

"Fenris?" Marian asks.

He turns at the door with a smile that warms her. "Yes?"

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

"Yes, Hawke. I will."

* * *

He is, in fact, present the next time she wakes, and Marian feels a little dizzy. Not from any injury, though she's sure she took a few noggin-rattlers during the fight and possibly a few more if Fenris had carried her back her from the viscount's keep. He didn't seem like he'd be too cautious while going through doorways.

She's a little dizzy because Fenris is on the bed with her, way closer than they've been before, except maybe that once, and maybe once or twice more in her dreams or her journal that was definitely private and definitely kept under lock and key and medium-strong hex and under a crate full off Carver's old weaponry since that one time Sandal found it and started reading it out loud.

He's sleeping, it's dark, the lyrium in his skin glows steadily in the dark room, and his head is pillowed on his hands against her knee. He's stretched sideways across the bottom of the bed, which is just… bizarre.

"Fenris," she whispers. She's unsure what will happen when he wakes up. Did he mean to put himself there? Does he know he's sleeping like a cat near her feet? Did he falls over and doze off? Wasn't there a name for that illness where people spontaneously fall asleep in the middle of daily life?

He rolls towards her, blinking. "Hawke?"

He sounds very casual. Like letting a half dead mage sleep in your bed and just draping yourself across their legs is an everyday occurrence. She tries to match his tone, but it doesn't sound exactly right to her ears. "The one and only. Whatcha doing down there?"

"I broke the chair."

"I'm sorry I missed it. Did you fall on your head?" People falling out of chairs is absolutely one of her top five favourite things. It's what makes late nights at the Hanged Man so damn enjoyable. Someone always falls out of their chair.

"No, I threw it out the window. It was a terrible chair for sleeping in." Yes, that seems logical, the whole story checks out.

She motions for him to settle in next to her. He gives her a long look with narrowed eyes, but moves eventually, lying on top of the blanket. Even that way, he radiates body heat. Marian soaks it up, savouring the warmth. It loosens the stiffness in her muscles, like sinking into a hot bath. Fenris's breath is a steady presence against the side of her face when he turns towards her on his side and takes up part of her pillow. She doesn't push him away even though she once threatened to gut Bethany for looking longingly at her pillow.

She has time for a single thought before she closes her eyes again…

_Just like I imagined in my journal._

* * *

His fingers are twined through hers when morning comes. It's easier to turn over now, so she does, facing him. She prods Fenris with a friendly poke to the face, eight or nine times (he wakes up after four).

"Have you honestly been sleeping next to my deathbed every night?" she asks him. She needs to know.

"It's not a deathbed."

"Fenris." She puts the stress on the first syllable, knowing that usually cracks him and spills out the truth.

"Yes," he says simply.

Marian waits for something else, some snark, some logical explanation why she couldn't have been left alone, some reasoning, some evasion or a quick exit... Fenris holds her gaze and says nothing else.

"But… why?"

He scoffs and gives her the most exasperated look ever, considering his disgraceful bedhead and the fact that he still hasn't let go of her hand. "Hawke. Marian. You should be dead right now. That fight was… You very nearly died on me. I don't want to risk that again."

"Oooh, my first name, you must really be serious," she says, and it sounds so much like a flimsy excuse to avoid a serious discussion about feelings that even she has to wince.

Fenris kisses her then, just a brush of his lips against hers, a soft, sweet, delicate reminder that not only is he willing to put up with a significant amount of her bullshit, but he actually occasionally enjoys it. He pulls away, a fraction of an inch, and she moves forward ignoring, for the first time in days, the discomfort her sudden movement causes. The remedy she's chasing outweighs it all anyway.

The second kiss is longer. It's deeper, hotter, and Marian can feel a blush creeping up on her cheeks as he drops her hand and cups her cheek.

"Ugh, morning breath," she says, ruining a perfectly lovely moment in the most Hawke way imaginable when they finally part.

"Oh, you must mean yours," he shoots back, smile playing at the corners of his lips, before he kisses her again.

**Author's Note:**

> This Hawke was a bit of handful to wrangle, both for myself and for Fenris. I hope you like! I tried to trope it to the max. <3


End file.
